


The Art of Learning to Fly

by bluetoast



Series: Birds of a Feather [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bullying, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1496815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's first gymnastic meet was a small one. A simple verification at his gym - the crowd is full of families and friends of the students and a mixture of healthy competition and fun. At least, that's what it was until the end - and the winner of the senior elite class finds out that he, the fourth place junior is deaf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Learning to Fly

The air was alive with the sensation of sound. Dean Coulter looked up at the crowd from his seat just off the floor from the high bar. If this was a small gymnastics meet, he couldn't imagine what a large one would be like. At least his chair was stationary – the people weren't too worked up yet. He could remember feeling seats shake under him before under the roar and excitement of the crowd at Camden Yards, when the Orioles played. On some holidays, like Christmas and Easter, the pews at church had a vibration that he was certain even the hearing people could feel. Then there were the times at school, at assemblies when the whole world seemed to shake. 

Dean got to his feet, bouncing slightly to get his blood flowing a little better. 

A verification meet is what his coach had called this.

All the students at the school competed, grouped together by their level. He'd just recently cleared into the junior class. He'd work through junior to junior elite, and from there it was onto senior – and then senior elite. 

Most girls became senior level at age twelve. Boys, or rather, men – entered that level at around age seventeen or eighteen. 

Six more years of working his way up the ranks.

High bar was his weakest event – and he always went first on it. He walked calmly as he could up to the bowl full of chalk and began to cover his grips with the powder, grimacing at the smell. Chalk, dust and sweat – the gym bled the scent, always making him glad he didn't have allergies. He didn't look at the other juniors gathered around the bowl, only noting them as they left. 

Dean set the little bar of chalk down, and went over to the bar, his face showing more confidence than he felt. The first time he had seen it, the horizontal bar had seemed impossible. The bar loomed nearly ten feet above the ground, almost twice his height. He stepped up the the trainer who stood next to the bar who'd lift him up so he could grasp the bar and begin. The light next to the judges' table went from red to green and he raised his arms, and a moment later, he was clutching the bar and he began. 

The smells and sensation of sound vanished. There was only him and the bar. Every now and then, he caught a glimpse of the ground, and when his feet hit the ground on the landing, he felt his knees shake slightly before he stood, saluting the judges. 

Once back in the staging area, a few pats on the back and his translator, Max, met him back at his chair and gym bag. 

_“I don't know enough about this sport to say how you did.”_ Max frowned. _“By my estimation, you did excellent.”_ He turned at something and Dean looked in the same direction just to watch some girl nail her landing on the balance beam, not even a hint of a tremor in her legs. 

_“Damn.”_ Dean shook his head and then turned as his score was posted by the judges. A nine point three seven.

 _“That's good, right?”_ Max gave him a curious look.

 _“It's okay. The routine is out of a nine point seven.”_ He smiled wryly. _“Little mistakes add up quickly.”_

 _“Well, I didn't see any mistakes. You didn't fall off, did you?”_ The man patted his back and they both sat down to watch the rest of the junior boys compete on the event.

*  
Dean tugged his sweatpants up over his leotard and then pulled on a t-shirt. The changing room smelled more strongly of soap than sweat, and he was convinced that the paint on the walls had contained deodorant. He double checked his bag and then gathered up his winnings from the verification.

Fourth place all around out of the juniors

Sixth on the high bar.

Fifth place on the parallel bars.

Fourth place on the pommel horse and vault.

Second place on the floor.

First on rings.

The ribbons, one pink, one green, two white, one red and one blue – and three trophies. He turned the blue ribbon over in his hands, the rosette and button seemed to gleam and turning it over, he could see the small card, with his name written on, along with the event – and his score. A nine point seven eight. 

Dean smiled and, adjusting his hold on everything and headed for the exit. He stopped as the winner of the senior elite verification, Nick, who was nine years older than him, came into the room, almost knocking him over. He stepped to let him pass but the gymnast set a hand on his shoulder, catching him. “Thank you.” He knew his voice had to sound odd to him, because the guy gave him a weird look.

The world suddenly shifted again – and everything but him and the older boy vanished. Because the champion began to laugh. A horrible, boiling feeling built up in his stomach and he didn't know if he wanted the punch the guy or not. The feel of noise had gone quiet – and Dean suddenly became aware of the fact that _everyone_ in the locker room was staring at the two of them. 

He stepped back, his eyes wide, still uncertain of Nick's intent. It was hard to understand what the guy was saying – his laughter made his lips hard to read. The gist of it seemed to be that he thought Dean sounded funny. “I'm deaf.” He stated it as calmly as he could. 

This revelation made Nick laugh harder – so hard, he was clutching his sides.

Dean glanced at the other gymnasts, most of them had turned away, only a few seemed to be paying attention – most of the ones still watching them were people in his class. None of whom looked amused. The need to fight back was overpowering, but he knew nothing could be done. The guy was just an asshole. He cocked his head to the side, hating the bubbling feeling in his stomach that made him want to throw up. No one was rushing to his defense or aide either – but at least no one else was laughing. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man and spoke as directly and distinctly as he could. “What is so damn funny?”

Nick stopped laughing as if Dean _had_ punched him. He straightened up, his arms folded. “You're what's funny, dummy.”

“At least I'm not an asshole like you.” Dean snapped, pushed past him and headed out. The bubbling feeling was gone and he kept his head held high as he went to go meet his parents. He knew he might get into trouble for calling the guy that – but it would be worth it. Besides, if that man threw a temper tantrum over being called what he was by a kid, how was he handle more cutthroat opponents?

*  
It was Johnathan, a member of his class and the winner of the junior verification who told him what happened later. Nick had started to make fun of Dean's weird sounding voice and deaf people in gymnastics in general – when Ethan, a massive senior elite, had told him that he should be careful about saying things like that. When Nick had demanded to know why, Ethan told him that could get USA Gymnastics in trouble for discrimination - and the association already had enough problems already.

Nick didn't bother him again. 

Looking back – Dean saw the incident for exactly what it was; a learning experience. 

If he couldn't stand up to a cocky asshole in his own gym, he couldn't stand up to other gymnasts in the world. Compared to some of the people he would later encounter, Nick was just a snot-nosed kid.


End file.
